A Saturday Afternoon in November

We found ourselves visiting the North Side yesterday, first to eat then to cheer.  The Elmhurst College Blue Jays were visiting the Vikings of North Park University.

The school happens to be literally across the street from one of our favorite restaurants, Tre Kronor, which we’ve been going to since the late 1970s.  This is the place for Swedish fare, as evidenced by all the Scandinavian Blackhawks who used to eat there.  We especially like the breakfast menu.  I recommend Limpa toast to go with the Stockholm omelet.

Up until Clare was in college, I’d been on the North Park campus all of one time, to use the school library.  Then came four years of Blue Jays vs. Vikings’ softball, and here I was back again to watch my son-in-law coach the Jays’ defensive line and special teams.  Not having a kid on the field is both a good thing and a hard thing.  Winning isn’t as important, although the need to keep your mouth shut is, lest a parent hear something from that stranger about how his son missed an open-field tackle.

The weather was five or six degrees short of perfect, and a touch on the windy side.  But we all dressed up for March softball, and it was fine.  Sitting in the top row of the visitors’ bleachers, I saw how the field fit nicely into its neighborhood setting, apartment buildings bordering one side and the north branch of the Chicago River on the other.  When the ROTC color guard marched out to midfield before the start of the game, the crowd grew so quiet I could hear a few geese honking as they swam in the river at our backs.  Only in Chicago.

If I were a D-III football coach, there’d be no need for an offensive coordinator.  I’d have my quarterback set up in the pocket eight plays out of ten and throw downfield, interceptions and sacks be damned.  I imagined the game unfolding just that way, save for those times I watched the jets follow Foster Avenue west to O’Hare or when I heard the North Park quarterback shout out signals:  Ten Oklahoma, hut.

We could only stay for the first half because Clare had to go out to God’s country for a bachelorette party; one of her former teammates is getting married.  Time flies.  I have no one down on the field to root for anymore.  Maybe that’s what grandchildren are for.